‘The Bride of Frankenstein’ is a Gorgeous & Depressing Tale of Objectification
James Whale’s iconic sequel reaches near parody-level storytelling featuring female terror at the whims of the male ego.
NOTE: For the month of October, I’ll be watching and reviewing classic horror movies that I somehow never made it around to seeing. Bring on your commentary in the comments — and happy Halloween!
I’ve always loved Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Not just because it’s an essential cornerstone of horror, or because she conceived of it at age 18 — but because it explores one of the themes I will always eagerly, dreadfully show up for: humankind’s gleeful abuse of its own power, and the often dire consequences of such a reckless brand of self-aggrandizement.
I queued up The Bride of Frankenstein knowing I was in for more of the same, and that somehow we were about to patchwork-electrify a female counterpart into this mess too. I was a little surprised to make it halfway through the film with no glimpse of the Monster’s “bride,” but it didn’t take long after that for me to realize why: the film isn’t about her (though I read the title as referring to both her and Frankenstein’s actual bride, Elizabeth) — it’s about every twisted impulse and decision that brought her into…
